I have recently been informed of my nomination for the illustrious Liebster blog award. I didn’t fact check this, but it seems that Liebster is a German word that means something along the lines of dearest or beloved or favorite. I’m quite content with not proving this to be otherwise.
This award is for blogs that have less than 200 followers. I’m not sure where my nominator got the idea that this was the case – I, alone, am following myself on over 300 different email addresses – but I was already nominated and I’ll be damned if you’re taking that from me. Like the Versatile Blogger Award, which I scooped up a few weeks ago, this honor comes with baggage.
1. Thank your nominator
2. Link back to your nominator
3. Give your top 5 picks for the award
4. Inform your top 5 picks
5. Post the award on your blog
Ok, so here I go:
1. & 2. Thank you, Bittercharm! (P.s. I was going to do this regardless. Please don’t feel that this was forced upon me by “The Rules”.)
3. As I mentioned in my Versatile Blog Award posting, I am new to the blogosphere and don’t have an extensive list of sites in my library. I don’t want to name the sites that I did in that posting, so here are a few that I should have listed there and regret leaving out:
4. Yes, I will do that.
Who's your daddy?
To celebrate the occasion, some of you might have noticed that the site got a makeover. As The Understander becomes more of a household name, I felt that this layout would better facilitate smooth browsing for the several billion visits I expect in the upcoming weeks. What do you think?
To my loyal fans, I know what some of you are thinking. (Remember, I am a psychologist*.) Just because I’m an award-winning blog writer, I want to assure you that I am not going to sell out and go all mainstream. I’ll leave that to the cast of Wild Hogs. (Please note: I did not see this movie. If by some extraordinary anomaly, it was actually good, I still do not apologize. There is no excuse for a promo poster like this.) I’m a badass motherfucker for life. And now that I’m a big time badass motherfucker for life, I feel the need to prove my edginess to you. I’ve decided to push the envelope a bit further and tell you a little story about my latest experiences crapping shit out of my asshole.
But before I enlighten you, I think it is necessary that I give you a short bit of backstory:
Before my freshman year of college, I never even knew that some people wiped themselves sitting down. I was taught to do so standing up, and I am ashamed to admit that I wasn’t rebellious enough to question otherwise. Nevertheless, one day, I found myself in a college dorm bathroom having a pleasant conversation with a friend when he, all of a sudden, seemed to leave his stall, totally forgetting an important part of the pooping process. It was at this point that my mind was blown and my perspective on life forever changed. I even wrote a poem about it for my English class. My teacher didn’t really like it (I got a C), but I refuse to believe this isn’t genius. It is written in the spirit of Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy.
To stand or not to stand
That is the question;
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The acidy smolder of Third World butt gravy,
Or to take a double dose of Imodium,
And by opposing, end it. To constipate, to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep we say we end
The stomach-ache and thousand natural rumbles
That assplosion is heir to – ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To constipate, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to elude agony and humiliation, should prematurity find itself running down your leg. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of constipation agony too will come,
We must shuffle on this mortal coil,
Must choose to stand, or not. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life,
For those whom choose to wipe erect,
Must spread a cheek with their free hand, and balance an awkward stance. Still it is not unsoiled,
The pangs of despised love. But it’s your way, all that you know,
That patient merit of your nurturing kin.
When will you yourself might your quietus make
With a bare tear of TP? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary rote?
You, they bear you.
But there is another way. You first learned of it in college, in the community bathrooms.
Your friend seemed to have shit, and then just walked out of the stall, neglecting to wipe his sullied asshole.
But neglect he did not. Clean was his brown eye. Simply, he chose not to stand.
You never even knew that was possible.
So you started to experiment yourself. How did he do it?
Between the legs? – You got pee on your arm, and your hand dipped into the mud salsa.
Lean to the side? – You wiped shit on your cheek, and then fell off the john.
You pinched your wrist in a bow, and cramped up in a hover.
How, oh how, did this wizard clean his ass so well?
Perhaps there is some occult method you cannot quite fathom,
The undiscovered technique for swabbing one’s bum, no master returning.
It puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those itches we have
Than wipe of ways that we know not of.
Thus uncertainty does make cowards of us all,
And thus we must ask again,
When will you yourself might your quietus make
With a bare tear of TP?
To stand or not to stand to wipe; that is the question for thee.
And so, what once was routine became an act of experimentation. I was like a young Isaac Newton, desperately searching for the best way to clean myself. In short time, I realized that sitting down inherently spread out your butt cheeks. When combined with a gentle outward anal push, one is given a short window of opportunity where some of your inner butt hole is exposed. If you want a truly clean ass, you’ve got to wipe this white, as I like to say. This was the strategy I was using yesterday, when the following incident occurred:
All was going according to plan. I had sat down and excrement had evacuated from my southernmost orifice. It was a machine gun sort of poop that went “plop, plop, plop, plop”, sort of like skydivers jumping out of an airplane. When all was cleared, I proceeded to wipe, using the aforementioned method I had developed over the years and found to be most effective.
I was doing that gentle anal push thing that I mentioned while simultaneously – and elegantly, I will add – I brushed my butt with the paper. I am not sure what caused it, but for whatever reason, I released my sphincter too early. Like an elevator door closing on an unsuspecting passenger, my butt lips trapped the toilet paper, tearing it into two very dissimilar pieces. In my hand, I was left with a piece about the size of a large button and the shape of an Astro Pop. The rest of the three perforated sheets were dangling from my butt like a fishing lure. It all happened too fast for me to react. The paper began to soak up the shitty toilet water, and like fire following a trail of kerosene, it made its way to my butt. I slapped and swatted at it like it was a bumblebee. I screamed at frequencies I didn’t know I could emit. I jumped off the seat and felt liquid of unknown origin hit several different spots on my body. My efforts, however, were all in vain. If my asshole were a stick of dynamite, I would have exploded. In this movie, the hero did not escape. The water was cold, and I felt defiled.
But, believe it or not, this was not the worst of it. It wasn’t until my next visit to the toilet that I realized just how affected I was by the experience. When it came time to do the cleaning thing, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was like I knew how to do it in theory, but couldn’t put it into practice, like I was trying to hit a baseball or being forced to write with my left hand. I’m not sure of this, but I think it’s very possible that, in the history of psychology, I am the first documented case of Post Traumatic Wiping Disorder. I wish I could leave you with better news, but this is pretty much where I stand at the moment. I am lost and confused and scared. I probably have a long and rocky road ahead of me. Although I always imagined it would be for something more accomplished than this, at least I’ll probably have something named after me.